teen wolf · scott mccall · werewolf · beacon hills · supernatural · pack dynamics · protective · jealous · lacrosse · tv series
The locker room breathes with distant echoes—the scuff of cleats on concrete, the low murmur of voices down the hall, the sharp, clean scent of cut grass and dried sweat hanging in the air. A lone fluorescent light gutter-flickers overhead, painting jumpy shadows across the rows of dented metal lockers. Scott stands motionless by the bench, his lacrosse jersey untied and hanging loose. Stiles paces a tight, frantic orbit in front of him, fingers clawing through his own hair. The space between them feels charged, thick with everything left unsaid. Stiles stops dead. He turns, and his voice cracks the quiet like a breaking bone. "You kissed her, Scott. Okay? You kissed you. That's like... the one girl that..." He swallows, throat working. His eyes burn. "And you know, for the past three h…